


Flatline

by paratoxic



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: 90s AU, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst and Feels, Band Fic, Clint Barton Needs a Hug, Cocaine, Complicated Relationships, Drug Use, Heroin, Hospitalization, Hurt No Comfort, Interrogation, M/M, Missing Persons, Musicians, New York City, Overdose, Partying, Rehab, Sex Drugs and Rock and Roll, Smoking, Steve Rogers Feels, Tony Stark Has Issues, Tony Stark Is A Drug Addict, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-28
Updated: 2018-11-28
Packaged: 2018-12-15 17:51:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11811162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paratoxic/pseuds/paratoxic
Summary: As frontman of The Avengers, Tony Stark leads a life of riches, fame and incredible narcissism. Pressured by management and media into the rash stereotypes of a nineties rockstar, he quickly devolves into a filthy, drug-abusing cheat. And still, Steve can't help but love the man spiralling at his feet.He just didn't expect him to go missing, or to have to relive the reasons why.





	1. The Start

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out my Tumblr [here](http://paratoxic-ao3.tumblr.com/).

>   'The land of my fathers. My fathers can have it.'

* * *

**September 2000**

 

"Dylan Thomas once said, 'After the first death, there is no other.' I think it's pretty smart - but then again, the dude was a raging alcoholic. He was drunk when he proposed to his wife, and he was probably drunk when he slipped into the coma that killed him."

 

Steve takes a drag of his cigarette while maintaining eye contact with the detective sitting opposite him. Her name-tag reads 'Miss Romanov, Natasha'. He has the horrible, gut-sinking feeling that neither of them are supposed to be here, a single light cast over their hunched shoulders from above, the door of steel at the back locked. Steve is a rabbit caught in a cage, about to be gutted for all he's worth.

 

Natasha takes another look at Steve's file, though avoiding the possible criminal offences section and the list of drugs he's tested positive for. That can be an issue for a later time, when she feels ready to brace herself.

 

_Case of Steven "Steve" Rogers. Classified information to be retained within._

_BIRTH LOCATION: New York City, New York._

_DOB: July 4th 1966 (aged 34)._

_PHYSICAL APPEARANCE:_ _Race: Caucasian._ _Hair: Blonde. Eyes: Blue._ _Height: 6'0. Weight: 195lbs._

_NOTABLE VIA: Disappearance of Anthony "Tony" Stark._

_Interview commencing September 1st 2000; Interview conducted by Detective Natasha Romanov._

 

"Do you think about it a lot - drinking, taking drugs?" Natasha asks. Steve notices she has nothing to write with, no blank paper to copy down what he's saying, no recording device; she's simply listening to him, and he can somewhat appreciate that. It makes him feel less imprisoned. Maybe she's got a good memory and she'll regurgitate it later, but for now he's content with the lack of a pen scrawling intimately across a notepad.

 

Steve envisions the heavens and hells intertwined behind that steel door caging them in, the possibility of his future crashing like a glitched video game now that he's here. "That's how I want to go," he says to both answer and avoid her question, "dizzied and dancing and choking on my own vomit the way all the rockstars did at twenty-seven." What a glorious supernova, to be young and beautiful and erratically deceased. Perhaps it's a bit late for that now.

 

He should've been destined a poet with all the words so wise and wonderful blurted from his mouth. Instead, he got calloused fingertips good for nothing but scaling the frets of his favourite acoustics. Instead, he got sucked into a cold pit of more fame than he could have ever desired; more money than he knows what to do with. He got Tony Stark.

 

"Have you always thought like that?" Miss Romanov pushes. Steve knows that face - the young, concentrated and naïve one he used to have, driven by what it doesn't know and wants to find out. Natasha has composure, though, more than he ever had. She has cunning intelligence.

 

"No." Steve states the obvious. All the time he spent with Tony fucking himself over put him off the idea of taking any kinds of drugs - it wasn't until after Tony left that Steve resorted to them as a coping mechanism. It didn't last long, though. He promised himself he wouldn't let the habit destroy him.

 

"You must've changed a lot."

 

He's here because everything's changed - old Steve wouldn't come here willingly. Old Steve would be passed out this time in the afternoon in some dingy motel, off his face on ketamine. At this point, after Tony left, nothing really existed anymore. It's been years now since he was pronounced missing, but the case is endlessly open and Steve's right in the centre of it. "Sure," he says, continuing to smoke.

 

Natasha struggles to figure the man out, so resorts to skimming through Tony's file in hopes of finding more information. It turns out to be a disappointment.

 

_Case of Anthony "Tony" Stark. Classified information to be retained within._

_BIRTH LOCATION: Long Island, New York._

_DOB: May 29th 1967 (aged 33)._

_PHYSICAL APPEARANCE: Race: Caucasian._ _Hair: Dark brown. Eyes: Dark brown._ _Height: 5'9. Weight: 175lbs._

_NOTABLE VIA: Frontman of 'The Avengers'._

_LOCATION LAST SEEN: Olympic Stadium, Moscow, Russia._

_TIME LAST SEEN: Approx. 01:00am on July 10th 1997._

 

"Why are you really here, Steve?" Natasha unprofessionally tears the stupid cigarette from between his fingers, putting it out on the table. Steve doesn't pout, knowing he shouldn't really smoke anyway (and for the most part, he doesn't). "No more games."

 

"You know what happiness tastes like? I thought it was a six-hundred dollar bottle of champagne after three months on a worldwide tour and finally enough money to pay off our loans." He leans back slightly, eyeing the door he desperately wishes he could throw himself at to open, to escape. "That wasn't happiness, that was depression. I'm here because I'm not even sad, I'm just angry and I want to let it out."

 

"Then let it out," Natasha suggests as she twists in her chair, although clueless as to what he's referring to, "we're the only people in this room." Steve scoffs, picturing the Grim Reapers in uniform behind the black screen built into the wall, but Natasha is quick to assure him. "You and I, Steve. We never intended on charging anyone with anything so there would be no need for anyone else to be there."

 

"Fine." Steve pushes his chair back suddenly and gets to his feet to pace. The detective impressively does not flinch.

 

"Dylan Thomas was wrong," he goes on, "there are many deaths after the first one, and I'm going to tell you about the one that really fucking killed me."

 

*

 

**June 1996**

 

"You got the good shit." Tony urgently wipes his nose, flouncing on a beaten sofa and setting down his rolled bill, watching it unfold on the surface of the mirror lying flat on the coffee table aside the remaining lines. His sick mirage of escape is within snorting distance. "I can always count on you, huh? You'd never rat me out to the press, right? That's why you're my go-to guy."

 

"Get your head out of your ass, Tones, you're in it for the drugs." Bruce watches Tony stagger into the kitchen to spit in the sink, forcing out the acidic taste from the back of his throat. "Can't tempt you with anything else?"

 

"Mixing gives me the kind'a headache you'd rather shoot yourself than deal with." He hovers in the doorway, giving Bruce the sultry sort of smile and the slurring look in his eyes that entices him so. Bruce's moral compass breaks when his - friend, perhaps - glides into the room, his shoulders slightly jolted and swaying; the way he walks, he's capable of doing anything, being anyone. He's overly-content with who he is and hell if he doesn't show it off.

 

Mostly it's because Tony Stark is rich - disgustingly, gloriously swimming in his own cash and ego, aided by the attentive audiences that worship his music on a global scale. From Beijing to Amsterdam to Cape Town to Mexico City, his fans number in the millions and he does nothing but bathe in it.

 

He takes a seat beside Bruce again, resting his head on his shoulders as he waits for the effects to kick in. What a beautiful thing, to be tripping over your own words, your own feet; to fade out of the world, the entirety of the life you were given. "I have a show," he sighs, slowly shifting to move over Bruce, slinging one leg over his waist - the all-singing twist of his lips into the siren's smirk everyone adores him for, "wait for me backstage." It's not a request but a demand.

 

"You're going on like that?" Bruce pulls his lower lip between his teeth when Tony sinks down onto his lap, slow and tense. He rests one hand on the small of Tony's back underneath his dress shirt while blindly reaching out the other one, searching for the mirror.

 

"They never notice." It's one of the wonders of music - Tony's always totally fucked when he performs, but it's all in the show. The lights, the insufferably sufferable loud noise, streamers falling like rain from the sky, the moving mass of blissed-out bodies belting lyrics even Tony's half-forgotten - nobody sees his face or really pays enough attention to realise exactly what's going on except, of course, for the other members of the band.

 

Bruce finds what he's been looking for, pulling the drugs between them. Sick mirage of escape. Somehow there's only a single line left. "Five minutes," he bargains, sliding his hand further down into Tony's pants worth thousands until the smirk returns, "of us, and you can have the last one."

 

Tony tuts, slapping the boy's hand, advances and fantasies away. "Backstage," he reminds him, "and baby, you know I'd just take it anyway." He refers to the powder, plucking the mirror with its contents from Bruce's hand and re-rolling the bill of money.

 

He snorts it perhaps too quickly, for the pulsating feeling at the back of his skull doesn't usually come so dizzyingly fast or strong. Within seconds, he's holding back the urge to pass out, gazing swimmingly at Bruce through eyelashes sticky with sweat and half-leaning on him for support. Bruce's kisses on his neck are gentle and without intention, coaxing Tony into tilting his head back and pulling his body closer.

 

But Tony's more out of it than he tends to be normally and Bruce doesn't want to take advantage of it. "You're late," he murmurs against his throat, "you should'a been at the arena twenty minutes ago to get ready."

 

Bruce is constantly in and out of the band at his own leisure, deciding whether it suits him to be at the time or not. He owns several small apartments across the country, residing in whichever one's closest, earning enough money from dealing along with what he's gotten from the music to support himself. Mostly, he'll follow Tony around in a tour-bus, even if it involves leaving the country for months. He's got nobody here in the States - he doesn't keep in contact with his family. He sort of has anger issues, too, and prefers moments of isolation to the constant pressure of being under the press' eyes.

 

Tony slurs something about being too tired to care about the concert. He slumps off of Bruce's lap, curling into a ball with a drugged-out smile. There's no chance he's performing like this.

 

"Hey." Bruce is starting to feel the heaviness of his limbs travel to his brain, making his speech and decisions sluggish. "Come on, save it for the after party." Tony originally planned on meeting with Bruce so they could go together after the show, despite Bruce not being associated with the band in any shape or form at the moment; it's likely just to make a statement.

 

Tony Stark's all about making a fucking statement.

 

He started taking the drugs, throwing himself around at any man or woman in the immediate vicinity, a long time ago. And it wasn't Steve or any other pretentious band member that originally offered such a change in his life in the early days of the band, The Avengers, back in only '85 when Tony was barely eighteen. He's twenty-nine now - not much has changed in terms of his character, yet at the same time, everything has.

 

Justin Hammer, a near-ghost of a broken-up band formed a significant amount of years ago, was looking for a way to make cash after he was left almost penniless when his bandmates decided to split - and how better to do it than to sell uppers, downers and whatever else available to a wannabe rockstar freshly dropped out of high-school. Tony still keeps in touch with him, but has since found his own guy willing to travel anywhere with him to keep him happy.

 

Bruce, who is also lazily exhausted and affected deeply by the powder-form drug, lies down in defeat next to his 'friend'. "Five minutes," he gives in, "of us." It's odd how flexible the saying tends to be.

 

"Should call 'em," yawns Tony, recalling the entirety of the band, "tell 'em I'm not coming."

 

"You can't cancel another show, Tones," Bruce reprimands, forcing his eyes to stay open and his mind to see clear, "it's not like skipping school because you feel like it. Tens of thousands of people are counting on you. There's only so many times you can come up with those crocodile tears and sob-stories about your addiction to - what was it last time?"

 

"Cocaine." Tony waves a hand around in dismissal. "It's not a complete lie; you know I used to be hooked on that shit."

 

"You feigned going to rehab, like, six times. At least, I don't know, Billie Joe Armstrong made the excuse and got better." Bruce rolls over to sit up, clutching his wondrously spinning head. "Doesn't matter though, I suppose; everyone's so far up your ass that they can't see who you really are, right?"

 

'Five minutes of us' irrevocably dissipates. The atmosphere in the room becomes constricting and tense, somewhat sobering Tony up. In a rapid mood-swing mostly induced by the drugs, he goes off on a tangent, "You've always got to pick a fight, Jesus. You're not my mother, Bruce, you're my fucking drug-dealer, and I couldn't give less of a shit about how many people are 'counting' on me - I can do whatever the fuck I want, I'm Tony goddamn Stark. If I say I'm addicted to cocaine or sniffing glue or chicken shit, what's it to you? You keep doing your fucking job and you stay the hell out of my professional life."

 

He stumbles back to life, kicking off the ratty cushion fallen on him from the sofa, and makes his way to the front door. His whole body is tingling and numb, and he struggles to raise his hand to pull the handle. By the time he'll get to the arena, if he decides to go after all, the muscle tremors and confusion will settle in; he can only hope he doesn't hallucinate from dehydration too.

 

"Tony," Bruce reasons, the soft voice bouncing off the walls of Tony's skull. He flinches at the oncoming headache, knowing his trip isn't going to be the best one he's ever had. "C'mon, Tones, I didn't mean it. It's the drugs."

 

"Yeah, it always is." Tony rolls his eyes before slamming the door shut behind him. Every step he takes down the stairs leading away from Bruce's apartment, he imagines his left leg as being three times its normal length, giving him clown feet and the tendency to slip up often. It takes him four whole minutes to descend two flights.

 

Tony calls for a taxi, too beyond his own mind to care that he could be asked to sign an autograph or swamped by questions he'll be too fucked to answer (which will undoubtably go straight to the press, with the headline: 'Pretentious lead singer urged to visit rehab for, like, seventh time').

 

"I need to go to that big music venue," he sighs out to the driver of the yellow car, oblivious to the 'seriously?' look he's given. Like, the 'seriously, it's New York City, there are millions of people living here, and probably more than one accommodating big music venue' look.

 

"This is a big town, kid, you're gonna have to be a little more specific."

 

"Of course. Duh." The driver must be younger than him - he's pushing thirty! Who's she calling 'kid'? And what's that place called again? God, as if he's ever going to remember, especially in the state he's in. "Are you a fan of The Avengers? That's my band; we're playing tonight. I'm Tony."

 

"Stark?" The female taxi-driver with infinitely dark hair and crimson lips cranes her neck to assess the passenger in her backseat, humming in recognition when she concludes who she's dealing with. "Lucky for you, my friend never shuts up about you so I know all about it. I can take you—"

 

"Yeah, just drive." He throws a few hundreds or so at her, lighting up a cigarette despite the signs stuck on the windows warning him not to. The woman would usually make a rude remark in response to being treated like that but what can she do, other than obey, when the asshole's throwing out enough money to pay her rent for the month?

 

Tony can barely keep his eyes open, and the streets outside fly in and out of view with impressive velocity. He swears they're driving past the same buildings, over and over again, and it confuses him. The driver notices his drowsy, disordered state in the mirror and clicks her tongue in disapproval. "Are you high or something? It's really not great for my business."

 

"Yeah, you gonna rat me out to the press? Force me into the twelve-step programme again?" He fires back with a drag of his smoke but she only laughs in mockery.

 

"I bet you never went," she scoffs. She's got a point - an honest one, at that. Tony can't stand people who believe they can see right through him, and when they prove it, it's even worse. She takes Tony directly to the arena, raising an eyebrow at the lack of queues outside. "Are you late?"

 

"By no less than forty-five minutes, I reckon." The support band have likely been and gone, though he was supposed to be here before they started. He opens the door, hovering, trying not to puke up his insides. His high always reflects his mood, which unfortunately is nothing short of terrible tonight. His muscles are seizing up - he's shaking uncontrollably all throughout his body. "Is your friend here tonight?"

 

"She is," she answers nonchalantly then narrows her eyes in suspicion and disgust, "why, you wanna get in bed with her? I swear, all you rockstars are the same. I'll break your nose if I hear anything about it, Stark."

 

"I don't sleep with fans." It's the truth - they're all underage anyway, and they scream and faint too much. He's not in the mood for it. He gets to his feet at last, holding onto the roof of the cab and putting on the impression that he can walk properly. "Thanks," he mutters. The woman waves her hand in dismissal and drives away, forcing Tony to stand and wobble independently.

 

He locates the back door, managing to keep his breathing under control and his limbs moving routinely. He hides his eyes behind sunglasses from his pocket despite the late setting sun not at all being bright. The security guards eye him up, buying the act of sobriety, and let him in.

 

"Where the fuck have you been?" A member of management yells as he comes running down the corridor to give his client a little shove. "Support finished quicker than we thought they would. You were supposed to be on twenty minutes ago!"

 

"Where's Clint?" The drummer is the only one who can help him out at this point - the only other stable one in the band who knows hard drug abuse firsthand. Tony needs to put on his 'okay' face.

 

"He had to go out on stage - told the audience we were having technical issues." The man shakes his head in utter frustration. The amount of times this has happened, yet still nobody knows know what they can do to prevent it in the future; they can't keep Tony on a twenty-four hour watch. "He's in the dressing room with Phil." Phil Coulson is the make-do bassist when Bruce isn't around.

 

Tony pushes past the staff member, avoiding him especially when he tries to take Tony's sunglasses off. If he sees the singer's eyes, they're all fucked. He probably smells enough like sin as it is. He finds the dressing room with a stumble or two, finishing off his cigarette, a door with the band's name scrawled across a piece of paper stuck to it. This is how you can tell it's the nineties.

 

"Hey," says Phil happily enough when the door closes, "took you long enough." He's joking, of course - he's a suck up, young and desperate for attention. He craves all the fame and fortune he can get.

 

Clint Barton swings around in his chair by the mirror, eyeing Tony up and tutting at his use of sunglasses and worn apparel. "Come." He motions with his hand to the bathroom, dragging the man in with him and locking the door.

 

"You're lucky I'm not Steve." He chucks Tony's sunglasses into the sink, cracking them (he deserves it), and fixes him up with eyedrops. Tony tackles the buttons done unevenly down his poorly ironed smart shirt and smoothes out the rest of his garments. "What did you take?" Clint demands after a pause.

 

"Ketamine."

 

"Mydriasis as expected," he mumbles, tilting his head then reaching a conclusion, "it's spiked. See, your eyes shouldn't be red like that. The drops contain Tetrahydrozoline Ophthalmic though - that'll take care of it." Tony doesn't even want to think about how that ingredient is spelled or how Clint can pronounce it.

 

Spiking would would explain the headache. It's not unusual for Tony to get bad drugs but not care anyway. Clint won't stop the intense staring into Tony's eyes, making him more than uncomfortable. He knows a lot about the effects different drugs have on different people - he's really the most intelligent and all-knowing person anyone knows, though his drug use can obscure that.

 

Tony allows the examination but his irritated eyes can't keep still. The dizziness and irregular heartbeat aren't doing much to calm his nerves.

 

"You have one hell of a tolerance, you know - most people would be blacked out. Now it's nothing a little cosmetic treatment won't fix," Clint notes, "but we need to be quick."

 

"Clint," says Tony when the man opens the door, turning back to look at him for a wasted moment, "did you get off it? Did you quit? Coke, I mean."

 

Clint hesitates. "Your skin is too flushed," he points out, all serious, "call the makeup artist back in. And fix your hair. I'm going to get Steve." Walking away, he mutters something about ridiculousness.

 

Tony does holler for the makeup artist, and as he's sat by the mirror getting his face done up with layers of powder, barely-there bronzer and soft pencil eyeliner, Steve rushes back to the room, clutching the doorframe with angry eyes.

 

Instead of the screaming match everyone always initially expects, Steve lurches forward and throws his arms around Tony in a threatening hug. "Where were you?" He demands. "Fuck, Tony, I thought - I mean, you could've been—"

 

"It's not important," he insists. Steve would inevitably flip if he knew Tony was with Bruce. He pulls the guitarist in close so their conversation is completely private and murmured in a more sensual manner, bringing his gentle hand across Steve's shoulder. "Look, I'm sorry. I'm fine, see? Don't fret that pretty little head of yours. What if I promise to make it up to you?"

 

Steve is not braindead. He pushes himself away, refusing the offer. "Manipulative asshole. We have a show to worry about - we should be a third of the way through the setlist by now."

 

Tony, pissed that he's not getting his own way as he usually would, turns his back on his part-time lover (and full-time pain in the ass). The artist by him has been replaced with a hairdresser attempting to tame the loose strands of dark hair on his head. Once he figures it looks presentable enough, he stands and nods at the rest of the band, signalling them he's ready. They all follow behind him, anyway, even Steve.

 

"Dim the lights," he commands a passing tech team member, straightening out his jacket. Smiling slightly at the ringing in his ears brought about by a very-much-alive crowd of over thirty thousand, he takes the final steps toward the stage.

 

*

 

**September 1996**

 

Tony learned a lot over the years from the man who introduced him to drugs (Justin Hammer… and then Bruce, too). He learned, in his own eyes, how to have fun, how to lose control. Tony, deep down, is a hypocrite, as the very same naïve little fucker who promised himself and everyone around him that he'd never get mixed up in hard drugs or drink himself to ridiculous states like his goddamn father always did, now wanders the streets half-consciously in the early hours of the morning - again.

 

Tony sways as he stumbles down the street, occasionally stopping to lean against a lamppost and regain his balance. The bitter cold of winter goes unnoticed as his body is fuelled by the warmth of liquor. "Clint," he panics as his head spins, "Clint, get over here, I—"

 

Clint doesn't pay attention as Tony doubles over to throw up, mostly bile as he hasn't eaten in hours. He's so fucked he can't remember what he took, and the alcohol combined with that does nothing to help his pulsating headache. He's living the life of a rockstar, that's for sure.

 

"Come on," Clint says, slightly more sober than his friend to the point where he may feel like shit but at least doesn't look like it, "we've had too much—"

 

"You think I don't know that?" Tony snaps. It's a wonder he can form full sentences. He seems to be falling over his legs, tripping in every sense of the word. Clint puts a sympathetic hand on his shoulder.

 

"Let's go home," he suggests. His pupils remain wide.

 

"Fuck!" Tony exclaims, wiping his mouth and spitting to try eliminate the taste of vomit and scotch from his tongue. He clutches his head and shakes Clint's hand off of him. "I don't know where we are."

 

"Call him," says Clint.

 

"No," Tony grits out in a slur. He'd rather pass out and spend the night on the sidewalk, robbed of all his cash and dignity.

 

"Fine, then call Bruce," Clint suggests, thrown off. Tony shakes his head in defiance, spitting out another 'no'. Clint begins to lose his patience.

 

"Tones," he says, "just fucking call someone."

 

"I don't - I don't need them. They won't want to help me. I can do it on my own."

 

"Then you can go to hell." Since he doesn't have a cellphone, Clint turns back around and heads for the closest pay-phone, his mind racing and confused as he attempts to conjure up the number from memory.

 

Tony lunges for his friend, nearly tackling him to the ground. Clint wriggles around, waves of nausea tickling his throat, but quickly sobers all the way up. "Get off me! God, look at yourself. Look, we can't call a cab - the press will blow the fuck up - and home isn't walking distance away. We've got no other option."

 

The selfish part of Tony - pretty much all of him - wants to call Steve just a little so Steve will see him in his current distressed state and take pity on him. He wants to go home and be cleaned up, then take more drugs together and have sex with his bandmate.

 

But Tony is also insufferably stubborn, and hell if he's actually going to ask for help from anyone, never mind Steve Rogers. So while Clint shuts himself in the glass box of the pay-phone, he sulks on the corner between two streets, feeling around in his pockets for a cigarette.

 

Clint emerges less than a minute later, eyes glazed over with the remains of his high. "He's coming," is all he says.

 

Tony doesn't question how Steve will know where they are. "I can't find my Camels," he complains.

 

Clint ignores him, blindly taking a seat of the curb and putting his head in his hands. "I don't like this anymore." He sighs to himself. Clint finds it hard, so hard, but he can't stop either.

 

"You alright?"

 

Clint mutters a 'yes' and falls onto his side, curling up and closing his eyes. Tony watches him noiselessly until a familiar black car pulls up on the side of the road.

 

Steve rolls down his window, also keeping his eyes on Clint so as to distract himself from the familiar mess that is Tony. "You need help with him?"

 

"No." Tony sulks, going over to shake Clint and helps him up when he awakens. Tony guides Clint into the backseat and clambers in after him.

 

Steve starts driving and says nothing. Tony's eyes burn into the back of his head but he can't think of anything to say either. 'I always used to promise you I'd get better - ironic, isn't it?' doesn't cut it. He settles for rolling down his window to help him breathe, calming the urge to throw up again.

 

Steve's tired of it - going out at night to fetch Tony when he could be catching up on some well-needed rest, but he's so smitten with the frontman that he'd jump off a bridge for him if he was asked to.

 

When they arrive at Tony's luxury apartment, before Tony can even open the door, Steve speaks up.

 

"What was it this time?" There's little to no emotion in his voice as he hides it well. "More ketamine?"

 

Like he can actually pretend to be worried. Tony rolls his eyes. "It doesn't matter." He pauses before adding forcefully, "I don't want you to call me."

 

"Fine." Steve mutters an 'asshole' under his breath then nods his head to Clint. "He's staying with me. I don't trust you."

 

"I never asked you to." Tony slams the car door when he's out.

 

As soon as Tony reaches his door and starts searching for his keys, he expects Steve to leave. A small part of him wishes he would be less selfish, more considerate of how Steve must feel all the time as he puts up with Tony's shenanigans. The bigger part of Tony says to shut up.

 

Yet Steve is still here. Steve refuses to give up on him, as irritating and heart-warming as it may be.

 

"I don't know what to do with you." Steve's opening his car door and stepping outside, walking a few steps in Tony's direction. "I hate this. I hate it. Don't you ever get tired?"

 

"I fail to see the problem," Tony scowls. His vision blurs in and out of focus, preventing him from being able to unlock the door.

 

Steve's temper is short enough as it is, and this almost sends him over the edge. "You write your own death sentence by wasting away your life, you know that? These are your own reckless decisions but you can't even see the wrong in them!"

 

"Go away, Steve." Tony's hands start to shake as he grits his teeth in pent-up frustration, still fumbling with his keys.

 

"I'll go away when I'm fucking done talking. You're killing yourself, and it's killing me. I know you must somewhat understand this - are you depressed, Tony? Are you fucking miserable with all your fame and fortune, huh? Why are you doing this? Why did you lie to me? You promised you would try to stop, if not for me then for yourself!"

 

"What are you going to do about it?" Tony snaps and throws his keys on the ground, finally giving up and whipping around to face Steve. The vertigo isn't as severe now as it was.

 

"I don't fucking know anymore! I try, okay? But how was I supposed to help you at first when I didn't even know—"

 

"OH, YOU KNEW I DID IT!" Tony storms up to his bandmate, face to face, inches away. He doesn't tend to shout often but he's past his limit. "RIGHT FROM THE FIRST FUCKING DAY I CAME HOME WITH RED EYES AND THAT PIECE OF JUNK SMILE! AND I CAME HOME WITH ALL THOSE SIRENS TO TOSS OUT THE MORNING AFTER AND YOU COULD ONLY EVER WATCH AS I TREATED THEM, EVERYONE AROUND ME AND MYSELF LIKE NOTHING SIGNIFICANT! I WAS FUCKING NOTHING, STEVE! I AM EVERYTHING REPLACEABLE ON THIS EARTH; YOU LOVE THE ONE YOU CAN DISPOSE OF AT YOUR LEISURE!"

 

Steve is stunned into silence, barely able to register what Tony means. The sirens - all the one-night-stands he brought home, in translation. Then he splutters out, "Love?" As if it's all he got out of the outburst.

 

"I know you love me," Tony says like it's almost a challenge, "you don't have to pretend anymore."

 

Steve ignores the embarrassment brewing inside his heart. "I... Look, if you at least care for me, why did you lie to me? Why would you say you would change if you didn't want to?"

 

"You think I didn't want to?" Tony hesitates for a split second to meet Steve's softening glare before shaking his head and turning away again. "I wanted to give it all up - even quit the band, a lot of the time. But management told me I had a reputation to live up to."

 

"Pricks!" Steve exclaims in disbelief. "They told you to act the part, didn't they? Tony Stark, the brainless druggie, all over the magazines. It's goddamn blackmail!"

 

"'Any publicity is good publicity', they said. So yeah," says Tony solemnly, "it was. And I'm hooked now."

 

He stares at his feet. "They encouraged it - told me, 'you either do the fucking or you get fucked'. The band depended on me - the fans, they depended on me." His eyes travel to his keys tossed carelessly on the grass, shining in the moonlight, before he picks them up and finally calms down enough to successfully unlock his door. "I did what I had to do, Steve. If you'll excuse me, I need another drink."

 

Steve stares after him, even when the door slams shut, left only with the internal promise he makes that he'll take care of everyone he can - Clint lying down in his car, Tony with all his baggage - except for himself.

 

*

 

**December 1996**

 

Similarly as no half-decent novel starts with 'once upon a time', no successful song begins with an out-of-tune guitar. If the building bricks are wrong, the house falls down. These minor faults are sudden and obvious - capable of being eliminated. So Tony fiddles around with the strings until they sound conventional; until he solves the problem.

 

Steve knows other mundane little faults can't be fixed. Falling in love, for example, is a gradual process, a dragged out descent into an issue too unclear to know how to resolve, until you meet your demise. Tony has six steel strings on his Fender Telecaster. The thing is worth about as much as a small car. Falling in love will kill you. These are simple statements of truth.

 

Clint, nursing his nauseous hangover, says from the other side of the studio at his drum kit, "It's open G, remember." They're going unconventional. He realises he's still out of it but Tony's new to learning guitar and he needs constant reminders on how to tune the thing, especially if he's going to sober while he's doing it. Tony thinks bitterly that Clint is not in charge of his guitar so God knows why he thinks he has the right to criticise the fucking key they're in. It should be Steve's job if anything.

 

Tony sighs, frustratedly twisting and turning the strings to suit his demands anyway. His eyesight is strained from the little amount of sleep he got last night after another reckless bender.

 

"Open G like Jimmy Page in 'Dancing Days' or Stone Gossard in 'Daughter'?" Tony asks distractedly, hoping they decide on the former. It's the more common variation and he loves Led Zeppelin's 'Houses of the Holy' album. Why did they even choose open G? Tony isn't Keith Richards.

 

"Hold on, I wrote it down," Steve says from his perch with another guitar at hand and flips through the notebook on his lap. Tony keeps his head down. Things have been, understandably, awkward between them since September.

 

Steve is always prepared with the details of their songs. Tony wants to hate him for being too constrictive but he doesn't know where the band would be without him - Steve is the glue that keeps them together. For now.

 

"Where is our goddamn shit-stain of a bassist?" Tony asks suddenly, irked. Phil is usually late, just to push their buttons, but right now he figures even Bruce would make a better candidate and he's off on vacation somewhere in the Pacific. The bassists in The Avengers aren't the most steady or fulfilling contributors. Unless Bruce is fucking around with Tony.

 

"I'll do the bass for this one if you think you can manage the chords," offers Steve, accepting that Phil isn't coming in to the studio this morning, and Tony rolls his eyes because everyone might think he's a brainless singer but contrary to popular belief, he is capable of strumming some strings.

 

"Sure. So?" He brings the attention back to the song.

 

 

"It's the Pearl Jam tuning," Steve confirms, huffing a humourless laugh when both Tony and Clint groan in exasperation. Overtones - wonderful. Tony likes Pearl Jam but Stone Gossard's tuning style is an effort and a half. "Tony, you wrote this song."

 

"I wrote the original. You wrote this fucking horrific excuse for an acoustic. I thought we agreed on drop D for this one, anyway."

 

Steve ignores him. "Have you memorised the lyrics already or do you need the notebook?" When Tony doesn't answer and Clint shifts uncomfortably in his seat, Steve goes straight to assuming, "Oh, right, of course you haven't memorised them. You were high when you wrote this."

 

"We only wrote it last week; you can't expect to remember all the words. Give me the book." Tony goes up to the blond and snatches it, perching on one of the stools at the back and setting his electric guitar over his lap, before realising - what the hell is he doing? This is an acoustic song. He wants an acoustic guitar. "Steve, why would you make me tune this if I don't need it?"

 

Clint looks over at them dumbly, as if also suddenly realising that his bandmate is holding the wrong instrument. He raises an eyebrow like Steve and Tony are a married couple in a fight.

 

"Oh," Steve says, "well, you've done it now - just change the settings on the amp. It really doesn't make a difference if you know what you're doing." He scoffs to himself and that's one of Tony's sore points - that everyone just thinks he's a moron with no talent. That because he's the singer, it means he can't do anything else. Tony can't remember the last time they talked without arguing.

 

"I know what I'm doing," Tony starts critically but Clint shoots him a warning glare.

 

"Then you would know that an open G tuning is really not hard to do," Steve shoots back, "or if you had actually spent some time learning to practice like you should've instead of snorting shit by the back door—"

 

 

There are too many bad days. "You know, I can't do this right now." Tony literally throws the guitar on the ground and he thinks he sees the neck crack a bit but he couldn't give less of a shit. He has plenty of money to fix it. He gives Steve the songbook back and scrapes a hand through his hair, down to the stubble on his face. "You're right, you've totally got it. I'm going to go a snort some shit by the back door." He slams the door behind him.

 

He's itching for it, too - it's been maybe a day or two since he's taken anything and it's staring to make him feel cranky. He wouldn't want to give Steve the satisfaction though. And it was incredibly stupid of Tony to assume Steve would take it easier on him now after knowing that his drug habits are only a direct result of management. It's not completely his fault. Tony sighs and lights a cigarette. The smoke burns his tongue when he sucks it in too quickly; fries the memories ingrained in his brain. Nicotine stains his fingers.

 

It's cold out, and his breath fogs up the air. Distantly, he tells himself that the goosebumps on his arms are appearing because he isn't wearing a jacket.

 

"Bum me a smoke?" A voice brings him out of his thoughts. Tony stares for a while at the one who's interrupted his peace and quiet but he could never find it in himself to be mad at Clint.

 

"What's up?" He asks lamely and tosses the packet to his friend. He uses Tony's lighter, and then smoke once again fills the air - a chemical cloud of guilt and tragedy.

 

"Menthols?" Eyes examine the cigarette, ignoring the question, running a finger across the small green camel on the filter. "You haven't had these in a while."

 

"Like you would know. How's the head?"

 

"Fucking sucks." Clint rubs a hand over his temple as if that would help. Mostly, his eyes just burn from the sunlight. "We have to stop going out on the nights before rehearsals. I literally rolled out of bed this morning." He looks at Tony sadly then, leaning in as if to tell a scandalous secret. "It was everywhere, all over the kitchen. The coke, I mean."

 

Tony can sympathise. He doesn't take it anymore but he knows how alluring the substance can be. A swarm of wasps ricochet off the edges of his stomach, flipping and reminding him how much they shouldn't be doing this. "Next time, we're sticking you on a booze-only rule. Get as drunk as you like but no more nosebleeds."

 

"I have some new material." Clint diverts the conversation back to music. "It's a sweet new rhythm we could develop for the new album." Full of inspiration, Clint is the beating heart of the band. He finishes his cigarette and puts it in the nearest trashcan. "Let's go back inside. Steve's the one being an asshole today but he'll get over himself."

 

Tony also bins his finished cigarette, noticing Clint's right - he hasn't had menthols in a while. The mint flavour sometimes throws him off and the cooling temperature is definitely an experience. It's like the companies are trying to disguise the fact that it's a one-way ticket to all kinds of diseases. The fact cuts through the air like a knife. "Maybe in a minute. I need to calm down or something first. Have you got any weed?"

 

Clint laughs, though not a stranger to teenage days of lying on a roof and counting stars with marijuana clouding up his head. "Of course I don't have weed. Tony, I have cocaine. I'm a little more troubled than that."

 

*

 

**February 1997**

 

"I made breakfast." Clint flips a pancake, catching it semi-perfectly. He's stayed at Steve's for the night again along with Tony after another night out tore them all apart. Steve decides to stop giving a shit for a while, if he can (which he can't, really).

 

The pancake is blackened around the edges, Steve's about to comment, but he decides not to because of the look he's given. It's good enough Clint's made him something to eat in his own home as a 'thanks for letting us stay... and sorry you fell in love with such an asshole of a man'.

 

"It's edible, okay?" Clint explains. "Can you get Tony?"

 

Tony's not going to want pancakes for breakfast; he's going to head straight for a bottle of pills or whiskey. Is Clint really going to play it oblivious forever?

 

"Steve, just wake him up." Clint waves him off as if reading his bandmate's mind, getting an eye-roll in response.

 

Steve opens one of the guest bedroom's door, seeing the room is enveloped in darkness with the curtains pulled tightly shut. The lump in the bed doesn't stir.

 

"Clint made breakfast." Steve debates switching the light on but doesn't want to face the inevitable hissy, hungover fit that would come with it. He takes a seat beside Tony on the bed. The light coming in from the hallway is dim but enough to illuminate Tony's features. He's peaceful when he sleeps.

 

"Yeah, I know he isn't the best cook but he's making an effort for you." Steve sighs at the lack of response. "Come on, get up." He nudges Tony's shoulders, tired of the 'playful' ignorance.

 

"Tones, wake up." Steve frowns as he shakes the man's shoulders more vigorously. Puzzled, he takes a look at the bedside table, seeing one of the familiar half-used bottles of booze from the previous night and an empty glass. There's a used needle left on the surface, but Tony doesn't tend to leave that kind of shit out for anyone to see.

 

Steve gets up, stumbling back to life. "CLINT!" The more he looks at Tony, the more obvious the situation becomes and the more stupid and useless he deems himself for not realising it before. "CLINT!"

 

"What?" The drummer comes running, dismissing the burning food in the kitchen.

 

Clint takes one look at Tony. "Fuck. Okay, Steve, sit down."

 

Steve can't breathe. The room blurs in and out of focus as he fights back his tears of confusion and Clint guides him to the corner of the room, helping him slide down the walls. How could this happen? Everything was going so swimmingly in its own messed up way, right?

 

Steve can only watch as Clint kneels beside Tony, fingers to his neck. He pulls back Tony's eyelids, assessing what he's taken by the size of his pupils. "Heroin," he mutters and Steve starts to really cry, "get the phone."

 

Every step he takes back to the kitchen, his feet are too loud, his limbs are too seized and heavy. Time holds still yet continues to move at a faster pace than he can comprehend. Steve snatches the phone and dials the three digits he thought he'd never have to.

 

"911, what's your emergency?"

 

"He OD'd. He's not b-breathing."

 

"Can you perform CPR? Do you know how to put someone in the recovery position, Sir? Keep his airways open." But Clint's taking care of that, because Clint's smart and Steve should've listened to him because then maybe Tony wouldn't be... "Your current location, Sir?"

 

Steve tells the operator where they are, and leaves his own name before hanging up, assured an ambulance is coming. He immediately rushes back to the bedroom, tearing apart the curtains and turning on the lights so they can see clearly.

 

"You need to hide this." Clint throws Steve the needle and Steve blanches. "You know what'll happen if they find it. He'll get into real shit this time. He'll run off. You'll never see him again."

 

Steve stands on the needle, smashing it up on the floor. He gathers the fragments and chucks them down the toilet, watching them whirlpool out of sight.

 

"Call Bruce," Clint instructs when Steve comes back in. He avoids looking at whatever Clint's doing to try help Tony, to try save his life, concentrating instead on not breaking down.

 

Steve doesn't ask why he should call Bruce. Bruce, as they all know, most likely supplied Tony with the drugs so he could know what to do in this situation. Steve momentarily pushes down the surges of hatred for that man - jealousy, too, that he captures Tony's attention so well.

 

He knows Bruce's number off by heart but right now, it doesn't come to mind. He stares at the phone with his hand hovering over the buttons, whole body shaking, a pressure on his head he can't recognise. The phone begins to ring suddenly, startling him, and he answers on the third one.

 

"W-who is this?" He asks.

 

"It's Bruce, Banner." The man sounds confused. "Didn't you check the caller ID? Anyway, I came up with this bass line I think would sound great for—"

 

"WHAT DID YOU DO?" Steve suddenly yells. "YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO BE CAREFUL, YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO LOOK AFTER HIM!"

 

Bruce pauses before understanding completely. He talks to Steve the way Clint does - like Steve's a child incapable of making rational decisions, only Bruce has a quiver in his voice that suggests he could very well be that child too. "Where are you?"

 

"M-my place," Steve sobs.

 

"I'll be right over, okay?" He hangs up.

 

It doesn't matter much in the end. The ambulance comes before Bruce arrives, so Steve calls him and leaves a message at the dial tone, telling him they've headed to the hospital. But Bruce doesn't come to the hospital at all - Steve figures he's scared; cowardly, even, that he'll have to take responsibility for something he's indirectly caused.

 

In the waiting room, Clint and Steve sit hunched over on their chairs, twiddling their thumbs. It's not even ten a.m. and they're having to deal with this shit.

 

"I need to leave," Clint blurts out and gets abruptly to his feet, clutching his stomach as if he's trying not to throw up. He heads for the closest exit and Steve runs after him, bewildered.

 

Steve makes a grab for his bandmate's arm. "Hey, what's wrong?"

 

Clint turns to face him, the wind destroying his freshly cut hair, and his irises flare with emotion. Anger, visibly. "You know this only feeds the media's fucked up perception on mental illnesses and drugs, right? Tony overdosing, they romanticise it. All the men and women swoon over him because they think he's broken, but that he can be fixed. They don't see the ugliness of addiction.

 

"But it's like all they ever see is Tony! Tony Stark, the tragically fucked up face of The Avengers, because fuck everyone else, right? Forget about Phil, or Bruce, or you, or me. Nobody pays enough attention to us, and that's not a selfish thing to say; it's just true. But you know what? I think I just realised that I don't care, that it's better off that way. My addiction to cocaine doesn't make page three in the tabloids, thank God."

 

"Your what?" Steve pales. He knew Clint drank a lot, but he didn't know he had a problem with hard drugs. How could he be so blind?

 

"I don't want to end up like your childish crush," Clint spits, "I don't want to die because of this, not that the world would mourn me."

 

"The world can fuck itself." Steve hugs Clint now, arms tight around his back, hands clutching his shirt as he tries not to cry for the second time in one day. "I love you, Clint. We all do. Despite what it may seem, Tony too. I think I understand what you're trying to say, and it's okay - take all the time you need to get better."

 

Clint pulls away, holding Steve at an arm's length with a grateful smile. "Thanks, Steve. We've only got a few gigs left, right? I'll play those then I'll come back one day, maybe."

 

Back in the waiting room, Clint keeps a wary eye on Steve. Steve is prone to doing stupid things in the name of 'love', like hypothetically trying to intrude on Tony when the paramedics are fixing him up. Clint knows it can't really be love - Steve has this perfect image in his head of who he wants Tony to be, but it can never come true. Tony Stark is ruined.


	2. The End

**March 1997**

 

Tony doesn't remember a whole lot of his childhood but perhaps that's the issue: Howard didn't not love him, he didn't ever shout enough to make a psychological impact, but rather Tony was ignored and uncared for while his mom had since left and dad shot up on the bluebell sofa in their 'family' room of Tony's childhood home. It didn't feel much like a home, more of an empty mansion with a lot of shitty, useless and expensive objects good for nothing but decor. He got the odd fifty-dollar pacifier, now and again.

 

As a preteen, Tony didn't understand drugs or how they could possibly make someone feel good about themselves, because all Howard seemed to do was work his ass off at his company during the day and struggle to stand at night, pupils shrunk, speech unintelligible. Growing up, he realised the man was able to function perfectly in the eyes of the media at least, but this was a wholly immoral type of cheating the system. Tony is many things, but not a liar. He makes his habits known, because why bother trying to hide such a significant part of himself?

 

"I will not stand here and lie," Tony drawls into the microphone at the stand, barely wincing at the flashes of cameras and expectant reporters looking his way, "I did not go to rehab after my overdose; I don't plan to either. But this isn't about me - this is about Clint Barton's departure of The Avengers. Clint has asked me to tell you this: he is under stress in relation to personal issues at the moment but he isn't giving up. Clint is a good man, better than myself, and he can accept help when he needs it which is something admirable and something I'm apparently incapable of. We all wish him the best of luck…"

 

God, it's time for the hard part. "And along with Clint, I have another announcement to make: The Avengers have collectively made the decision to go on hiatus—"

 

A large flurry of questions, 'Tony, Tony!' from this way and that, and he only ignores it for now and carries on. "I think we can all agree we've been graced with some incredible years but it's overdue that we take a moment to work on our health and other issues. Questions?"

 

"Is it true you've been having an affair with Bruce Banner?" One journalist pipes up.

 

"No," Tony denies quickly. They don't fuck regularly enough for it to be labelled an 'affair'.

 

"How long have you been abusing drugs?" There's another demand within earshot.

 

"Pass," Tony grumbles, wiping imaginary sweat from his brow in a gesture of discomfort.

 

"Mr Stark, what is your relationship with Justin Hammer?"

 

"Old friends." He doesn't lie, not really; just avoids the whole truth.

 

He takes a few more questions about when (if) the band is scheduled to reform ("There's no way of knowing right now.") and his multiple sexual encounters and dangerous habits, being as vague as possible true to his nature, then calls it quits, waving everybody off as a bodyguard escorts him to his car.

 

Steve is waiting in the backseat, having watched the conference live from the window, and speaks up as soon as Tony throws himself in next to him. "This is awful." He avoids asking about the hickey beneath Tony's ear, wondering how the press didn't catch onto it as well (or maybe they did, but they were smart enough to know Tony wouldn't give them a direct answer if they asked who he got it from).

 

"I need a hit," mumbles Tony as the car starts to move, the driver in front paying no attention to them.

 

Steve resists the urge to roll his eyes. He would be more worried if Justin hadn't cut him off since the overdose or Bruce was still around (but he still is worried, a little bit, because there are always other connections). "You need to settle down," Steve blurts out.

 

Tony takes his sunglasses off to glare at his former bandmate, revealing heavily bloodshot eyes and purple circles so dark they could be mistaken for bruises. "Fuck you, I'm not even thirty."

 

"You will be in a couple of months." Steve is suddenly reminded of how angry he was when Tony woke up in that hospital hooked up to all those IVs pumping him with even more drugs, and how he yelled at the singer for being reckless and childish and how he needed to grow up and tone it down.

 

He nearly let it slip how incredibly scared he was that Tony might die in that bed, and how much he loved him. Tony probably knew this but didn't care.

 

"You should worry more about Clint," he snaps then instructs the driver to roll up the window between them, not wanting to take the chance that he'll hear something he shouldn't.

 

"Where's Bruce?" Steve changes the subject. "Tony, I haven't seen him in weeks. He won't respond to my texts or calls - did you tell him to go away on purpose? Don't tell me you're angry at him because of the shit you pulled."

 

"I'm not angry; I haven't seen him either. He's probably run off, pissing himself that his little side job gets found out because of my highly public image - fucking coward." Tony scoffs.

 

"You're angry," Steve concludes like a proper therapist with narrowed eyes, "that he didn't even show up to see you after it happened. That he didn't apologise. You feel like he owes you."

 

"Why would he need to apologise?" Tony laughs listlessly. "You said it yourself, it's my fault. I fucked up. Are you happy?"

 

"No!" Steve backfires, outraged. "No, nobody is fucking happy right now, Tony, and we haven't been for a while! Just—" He calms down, shaking his head. "Find a wife or a husband or someone that will rub your back when you vomit and quit making it so fucking terrible for me to love you."

 

The car stops then as if subconsciously realising the two shouldn't be around each other and Steve clambers out. He isn't surprised when it takes off again without so much as a window rolled down or a 'sorry' floating out. It would be nice to hear an 'I love you too' at some point, or at least something more reasonable: 'Thanks for caring', perhaps.

 

Walking home down the streets of Manhattan, Steve sees something he wishes he hadn't: an old friend down an alley, smoking a cigarette. "Bruce." Steve steps closer, watching as the man's gaze turns lazily toward him. "You look awful."

 

Dishevelled, Bruce grins with a faint layer of pale yellow coating his teeth. There is a valley of desperation surrounding his pupils. "Nice to see you, Steve."

 

"When did you get here? I thought you were…" Steve thinks. "Away." Why isn't he angry? He should be livid so why is it that all he feels is exhausted?

 

"Not too long ago; business is rife so thought I'd make some extra cash in a more populated area." He looks so incredibly old, and it's in his eyes, too. Steve doesn't bother asking why he left because they all know. "It's a shame about The Avengers. I was thinking up some new bass riffs too… I suppose all good things come to an end. How's Tony holding up?"

 

A surge of fury runs through Steve - yes, there it is, like it should be. "Clint is the one who's in trouble here; he's the reason we split, not Tony."

 

"Wouldn't survive without a decent drummer," Bruce agrees, "Clint's the guy. Kid doesn't deserve this shit, though."

 

"I'm glad you ran off, anyway - to be blunt, it's done everyone a favour." Steve acknowledges the fact reluctantly, relieved at Tony's lessening drug habits as a result of Bruce's unexplained disappearance.

 

"Shit, I might be a bit evil but I'm not a homicidal maniac. I want what's best for him, believe it or not."

 

"Really? Is that why you got him to overdose?" Steve scowls.

 

"It's just business, he did the rest. You think it's on me that he ended up in the ER?" When Steve remains silent, Bruce nods in understanding. "People are goddamn terrible, you know. They're all that's wrong with this world but sometimes we have to let each other sink to the bottom before we can get back up. Be more about independence sometimes, and don't worry so much." He ruffles Steve's hair much to his annoyance. The man just thinks he's so deep, so emotional and philosophical.

 

Steve takes a step back frustratedly and crosses his arms. "You're really not making me feel any better."

 

"I wasn't trying to," Bruce says and pushes himself off of the alley wall, moving to walk away, "you've got to quit being so dumb and ignorant all the time."

 

"What's that supposed to mean?" Steve yells after him but he doesn't get a response. "Unemployed prick," he mutters when the figure turns a corner.

 

And then he turns back with a knowing and sad smile, calling out, "Steve?"

 

Steve picks his gaze up, awaiting.

 

Bruce shrugs. "It wasn't me." He leaves for good then.

 

But of course it wasn't - it was Tony, except everyone's having issues admitting that. Steve takes off in the opposite direction, pulling a hood over his head to somewhat disguise his face. As he walks, it should be obvious who he is, but nobody looks twice. It's times like this he's grateful he isn't as famous as Tony - he can leave the house without getting bombarded with screaming fans asking for autographs and pictures. It also reminds him how little the world actually cares about him in comparison, though. Steve takes what he can get with a sigh, appreciating the privacy for the moment.

 

He calls a cab when he feels more or less tired of his pointless strolling, yanking his hood down from his head when he's inside. The driver says nothing for a while then she turns back briefly to look at him with dark, skeptical eyes. "You're that guitarist, aren't you, in The Avengers?"

 

"I was," Steve corrects her irritably, not in the mood to talk about music. His tone is uncharacteristically rude.

 

"Right." She hides a sarcastic smile. "I've had two of you in my cab, you know." When Steve shoots her a 'get to the fucking point' look, she skips the idioms. "Tony Stark was running late to a concert once, absolutely off his face on whatever. It was... an interesting ride."

 

"Ketamine." Steve recalls the exact night, the last time they played the Big Apple the previous year. "I remember that." He was especially livid that night at Tony's tardiness. He studies the woman, her dark hair and her bold lips, and she relaxes under his eye.

 

"My sister went to that concert," she notes.

 

"Yeah?" Steve counters tiredly.

 

"She was assaulted." This startles Steve and he looks up from his hands in confusion. "He invited her to the after-party, chatted her up; knew she was underage and felt her up anyway."

 

"Tony did this?" Steve resists the urge to throw up.

 

"No, not Tony. One of the others," says the driver, "and she went to the cops but… Nobody took her seriously. Well, more like the guy who did it had fuck tons of money and fame that could get him away with it, and the police were easily persuaded. None of it even made it out to the press because of the obvious outcome of bad publicity. 'Scandal over sleaze-bag rock dudes groping impressionable preteens' isn't too catchy of a headline. She told me it's probably not the first time he's done this to a silly girl before."

 

"How old is she? Wait - who was it?" Steve asks, his mind racing a mile a minute.

 

"You believe me?" The woman asks but it was never even a question because yes, of course, Steve believes her. "She gave me the name: Justin Ha— uh..."

 

"Hammer," Steve finishes for her tonelessly and this time the vomit might not stay down, "would you mind stopping the cab? Please."

 

"You have better manners than your bandmates. How did you end up stuck with them?" She obeys the instruction and pulls up on the sidewalk just as Steve throws open the door and stumbles out into the midday sun. He stares up at the looming buildings casting shadows down on him then shuts his eyes, wishing he could be somewhere else - anywhere else.

 

"He's not in our band," Steve snaps suddenly, ignoring the nausea, wanting to defend the music and legacy he's invested so many years in, "I don't know who would have given him an invitation to the after-party. Fuck, I can't believe he actually... I mean, it's sick. It's so sick. I can't even begin to tell you how sorry I am."

 

"Hey, look at me."

 

He does, desperately, after she's rolled down her window. "What?"

 

"I've been keeping an eye out and he's back." Justin is back in town? "Do me a favour," the woman says suggestively then nods once at him before speeding off, and Steve knows exactly what she means.

 

Justin's temporary apartment (of course, he's got homes all over the country and beyond) isn't a far walk from his current location and Steve storms down the blocks. The driver could be lying, very easily, to make a good news story about a literal Battle of the Bands - the mystery around that could lead to all sorts of rumours worth buying. But it truly isn't a question, because as soon as she said the words, Steve trusted the stranger completely, more than he'd ever trusted anybody before.

 

That's the thing about trust - you don't have to be a friend for it to apply; you don't even have to know the person's name. Steve has the rare talent of being able to look into someone's eyes and tell the truth, expose their personality, ruin them like an open book over a flame. They should be scared. Steve doesn't trust too many people in the world.

 

He runs up the stairs, skipping the elevator, and imagines Tony half-falling down them in his drug-induced haze and stupor after he couldn't get a hold of Bruce for his fix and went to the next best option. He imagines Bruce watching over him from his door, half-dressed, half-smirking in the pink hues streaming in from the windows as the sun makes it descent. He imagines Bruce wrapping a belt around Tony's limp arm and taking out a needle with his teeth.

 

Bruce had told Steve that it wasn't him. But it wasn't Tony either. It was Justin Hammer.

 

"MONSTER!" The door comes down at the heel of Steve's boot, leather crumpling against his toes. "YOU SICK FUCK, YOU SHOW YOUR FACE!" He's in here, Steve thinks, judging by the way it reeks.

 

"Steve?" Justin barely makes it into the hallway before the tall blond is marching on and yanking him forward by the scruff of his collar. "Let the fuck go!"

 

"It was you." Steve pushes him to the wall, pulling him up against it. "You gave Tony those drugs - probably laced them with all kinds of shit."

 

"I love Tony," Justin defends eagerly.

 

"We all love that stupid illusion of Tony," Steve agrees, "but when you found out it wasn't real, you thought you'd dispose of him and chase after something else, didn't you? You went after the ones you could control - the young ones, the dumb ones."

 

Justin frowns in defiance before his eyes crinkle with realisation and worry. "I didn't try to dispose of him, it's just that I - the drugs weren't cutting it for me anymore; I needed something new. You gotta listen to me, Steve, I..."

 

"How old are you?" Steve asks calmly and when he's met with spluttering and excuses, he loses his temper completely. "HOW FUCKING OLD?"

 

"Forty," Justin answers with a snarl, not having the decency to show an ounce of regret.

 

"You took advantage of our underage fans," Steve lists off, "a man of your age, and God knows how many, and you killed Tony. You killed my best friend, Justin."

 

"He's not—"

 

"HE HAD NO PULSE!" Steve roars and curls one hand into a fist, refraining himself for now. Justin flinches back but remains, for the most part, expressionless. "You love Tony on drugs, on alcohol and ketamine and heroin; Tony who can vanish with you into the darkest pits of your filthy mind. You corrupt him, you always have. I'm going to fix him."

 

"You can't fix him," Justin barks a humourless laugh.

 

"You are going to disappear," Steve threatens very slowly, but it is a mercy, "and you are never going to come back. I am taking your money, to give to all those you have wronged, even if that means you have nothing left. I will never hear word of you again. This is the least you owe us. Do you understand?"

 

"And what do I get?"

 

"You'll get a few more years before those kids brave up and identify you as the predator you are, and then the police will find you. I'll leave it in their hands, if you want," says Steve and releases the man at last, leaving him to rub at his tender neck and shoulders where he was held as he drops to his feet on the floor, "unless you want me to take care of it, right now. Because I will, and let me tell you, it won't be pretty."

 

"No," Justin denies in a gruff voice, "I'll take it."

 

"Get the fuck out of this country before sunset," Steve whispers and slams the door on his way out.

 

*

 

**May 1997**

 

"This is a nice place," notes Tony as he takes a seat in a sun lounger next to Clint by the pool. "It's not the prison I imagined it to be."

 

"They're all about positivity." Clint is quick to explain and defend. "I haven't paid thousands of dollars to get locked up and go cold turkey. They wane you off it, slowly, in luxury. The bedsheets are Egyptian, you know that? The pool's a little cold, though."

 

"Well, I just wanted to stop by to say sorry again." Tony changes the subject, looking around wistfully as the Californian sun beats down on their backs.

 

"You have to stop that; it's like the twelfth time you've 'stopped by' to say it." Clint gives him a half-smile. "It's not your fault, Tones."

 

"I'm the fuck-up here, I was always high on whatever, you know? And you probably just interpreted that as being a rock-star, which it kind of is if we're going by stereotypes, and you thought it would be okay to get high as well. That was the impression that I gave you."

 

"There's nothing wrong about getting high," argues Clint, "there's something wrong about being addicted to cocaine, though. It's my decision to be in here—"

 

"After my OD scared the hell out of you," Tony grumbles. The world seems to be a sphere of problems that always land back on him.

 

"Well, that's your problem," Clint deadpans and Tony raises one eyebrow in surprise, "are you gonna do anything about it? Are you finally going to stop?" He refers to the man's drug habits.

 

Tony scratches the back of his neck, debating about lying to one of his best friends - sure, yeah, I'll try to get clean - but then decides it would be pointless. "No. Not now." Even after his near-death experience, he's too stubborn, too far gone. It makes him feel like a moron. Maybe it's the fact he feels so alone that's preventing him from wanting to get better - he doesn't have anyone to get better for, apart from himself, but he doesn't really care all that much about himself.

 

He has Steve, sure, but Steve's got his own life to worry about. Steve's trying to find some job in music technology for the duration of the hiatus (but the more time goes on, the more likely it seems The Avengers are a done thing). Would Steve even notice if he got sober? He'd still be an asshole so what difference would it make? Steve hates him.

 

"How are things here?" Tony asks, stressed. "Do you regret it, coming here? Do you miss the drugs?"

 

"Oh, of course," Clint answers the last two questions nonchalantly, "I fucking hate it and I fucking hate being sober. Can't even remember the last time I had a decent cocktail. But I know it's for the best."

 

"When you get out, will you have changed or do you plan on…?" Tony trails off, unsure of what he's asking. Is he pleading for confirmation that he won't be the only one that keeps failing - he won't be the only junkie in the band? Is he so selfish that he wants Clint to revert back to old habits to keep him company?

 

"Will I keep using?" Clint finishes for him. "I hope not. Tony, I don't want to die."

 

"Cocaine's not even—"

 

"Forget about cocaine, Tony," Clint butts in, "you know what they're calling the north-east coast these days? The Heroin Highway. It's in all sorts of forms these days - you can snort it, smoke it as well as shoot it up. That's what we should be worrying about, since coke use has waned in the past five, ten years. I'm not the one you should concern yourself with. It's not the drug that's going to stick around for the immediate future." Clint's tone softens as he places a hand on Tony's shoulder but Tony shrugs it off, disconcerted as he stands.

 

"You can stop trying to help," he scoffs, "I know my limits now. I'm safe."

 

"You're never safe. You think you are, but you're lying to yourself. I should know. You're going to die." He looks into Tony's soul. "Please, Tony, stay alive. For Steve, for me, for yourself. It's not a game anymore."

 

"Whatever," Tony snaps and yanks his leather jacket from the lounger, hot in the sun, "that's my problem, right?" Before Clint can argue with him for any longer, he's already leaving in a half-sprint, refusing to let the words get to him.

 

He runs for a little while until there's burning throughout his body and his head pounds. He stops at the onset of nausea and slight tremors - he's been putting off the symptoms all morning, figuring he could wait until his flight back to New York before he'd need another hit, but the plan has evidently gone to shit. The flight is six hours back anyway, what was he thinking?

 

He pulls out his Nokia 1610 and searches for a familiar contact before bringing the device to his ear as it rings and rings. Tony bites his nails subconsciously until there's an answer. "Hello?"

 

"Coulson, you're around, right? I'm just outside of Calabasas."

 

"I'm in Malibu." There's the sound of a champagne bottle popping up and some girly squeals, a thumping bass line in the background. "Tony, can this wait? I'm kind of in the middle of something."

 

"It'll take you fifteen minutes to get here, I just want a baggie." Tony rolls his eyes though Phil can't see.

 

"I don't have a baggie. You never gave me anything to set aside for you, and I don't have any of my own stuff here."

 

"Check under your bed." Tony waits frustratedly while there's rustling, sliding doors, sighing as Phil does as he's told. "Well?"

 

"How the hell did this get in here?" Phil asks in awe as he opens the 'first aid' kit stored away in his bedroom, equipped with everything Tony will need from a lighter to the drugs themselves.

 

"You put it there, Phil. You told me." Tony grits his teeth at the man's forgetfulness. "Please don't tell me you're drunk or something."

 

"Tipsy," Phil admits, "but hey, don't worry. I'll be there soon, 'cause that's just how much I love you, right?"

 

'Tipsy', before twelve in the afternoon? "You fucking better." Tony hangs up, hoping Phil will drive somewhat safely and won't get himself killed before Tony gets his next fix. That would be unfortunate.

 

Phil's Cadillac pulls up nearly half an hour later, swerving a wheel or two onto the sidewalk, and Tony's a mess, tugging on his hair and grinding his teeth in stress and eyes darting about all over the place as if there's a whole crowd of people watching him, sneering. As soon as Phil steps (stumbles) out of the driver's seat, Tony lurches toward him.

 

"Where the fuck have you been? It should've taken you half that time to get here." He snarls and yanks the box from Phil's arms, cringing at the stench of booze on him. "You're wasted - any cops take note of your bad driving?"

 

"Nope," Phil declares and it's then that Tony sees the small, half-empty bottle of gin tucked underneath his arm, "'n' they di'nt see me drinking on the way over."

 

"You careless moron!" Tony hisses. "God, why do I trust you with anything?"

 

Phil gives him that familiar sultry smile that Tony used to use on Bruce when he wanted things his way, so Tony waits impatiently with a hard frown, expecting Phil to ask for some kind of payment now. "Can I," Phil starts eventually, "get a taste?"

 

"No." Tony shields the box away from him. "Get your own, shit-stain."

 

"You can - you can shoot up in my car," Phil offers in a slur.

 

"I'll pass."

 

"At least suck my cock," he says lowly, that damn smirk on his lips, "or let me do you—"

 

"Say anything like that to me again and I'll ruin you," Tony promises and that drops the smile off of the drunk's face. This has been difficult enough for him, having to trust some dodgy dealers he doesn't even really know since both Bruce and Justin have went off the grid. "You want some heroin? Go for Loki Laufeyson; he's got a ten percent discount on."

 

"You're no fun," Phil whines, leaning back against his car, "I jus' - I just wanted to do something together and all you ever do is drugs. Why can't you be more like - like Clint?"

 

There's a satisfying snap and crunch as Tony's clenched fist rattles off of Phil's nose, spraying blood onto the tarmac. Phil yelps and recoils to one side, both hands flying to the injured tissue. Tony slips into the driver's seat of Phil's car and shuts the door behind him. The keys are still in the ignition.

 

"What are you doing?" Phil yells and sticks his head in through the open window, stretching his arm inside to reach for Tony.

 

Tony rolls up the window after pushing the man a few feet away. "It's just how much I love you, right?" He fake-pouts, using Phil's own previous words against him, and starts the engine as he puts the vehicle into gear.

 

Phil grows angry as it fully dawns on him what's happening and starts banging on the glass and screaming. "OPEN THIS FUCKING DOOR, YOU LOWLIFE JUNKIE PIECE OF SHIT!"

 

Tony releases the hand-break and slams on the accelerator, slightly knocking Phil back as more blood spills from his nose. Phil scrambles to his feet in his cheap suit, waving a hand in fury and shrieking after Tony who simple selects a radio station and turns it up to full volume to tune the voice out, the blissful energy of the first track to AC/DC's 'Powerage' album blasting through the speakers.

 

He won't have much time before Phil arrives back home via a cab to his party that's still raging so Tony hurries to the location. He passes by the excited women and disbelieving men on his way into the villa Phil's rented out for the couple of months since the band split, breathing heavy as he locks himself in one of the bathrooms, silent except for the murmuring of modern music outside the door.

 

He sets the equipment from the kit out on the edge of the cream bathtub, taking the small baggie first to shake some of the powder onto a spoon before holding it over the open flame of a lighter. It takes a long, long time to liquify. Someone's banging on the locked door by the time he's used the syringe to suck up the liquid and tied his belt around his upper arm, smacking his inner elbow in hopes of finding a more prominent vein.

 

"Tony Stark, is that you?" The stranger yells excitedly through the door.

 

"Piss off!" Tony tells her, too busy to even pretend to be nice (and not like he usually does). He flicks the needle then positions the point over his skin, frustrated with the staggering intensity of his hands shaking that prevents him from getting a clean administration.

 

"Tony Stark's in there?" Another voice sounds from outside, drawing in the attention of other guests.

 

Tony's vision flickers in and out of focus as his heart seems to swell in his dry mouth. The shaking worsens, and he can't do it.

 

"That's the lead singer of The Avengers!" More eager claims and shouts from outside as the man they idolise destroys himself - except he can't do it. He's turned thirty, and this is where he is: barricaded in a bathroom, shooting up in the tub before lunchtime. This is his life.

 

"Mr Stark, can I get a picture?"

 

Throwing away his life was always too easy, but it all gets a little bit too much, sometimes. He realises at that moment how terribly he misses Steve.

 

"Tony, show us the drugs!"

 

The needle slips under his skin, and he's falling away.

 

*

 

_THE NEW YORK TIMES_

 

_Sunday, May 11, 1997._

 

_STARK INVADING HOMES - DRUGS TO BLAME?_

_By Peter Parker_

 

_Fans of The Avengers’ lead singer Tony Stark were surprised to see the star crash a Malibu house party on Saturday morning, with many eye-witness accounts reporting that the frontman was apparently carrying a ‘suspicious’ box with what many party-goers assumed to contain illegal drugs._

_The weekend villa gathering, which had been at full swing the previous night, hosted celebrities from around the California area and was said to have been ‘pretty PG’ with an abundance of champagne handed out to guests aged strictly over 21, and no sightings of any heavier substances outside of Stark’s hands. The name of the property owner is uncertain and they were not claimed to have been seen at the time of the incident._

_Witnesses report Stark entered a bathroom within the Malibu home before midday, locking himself in the confined space and largely ignoring any voices outside the door. The party was shut down by local police at approximately 3:00pm due to noise complaints from neighbours and Stark was noted to have fled the scene._

_This comes after a prompt press conference in March, when Stark announced that his infamous rock band had ‘collectively made the decision to go on hiatus’, though it is unsure if they are to return to the stage any time soon._

_Numerous sources have since confirmed that Stark’s notorious drug habits had progressed dangerously into more constant abuse after his highly-publicised overdose of heroin in February, which is thought to have contributed to the reasons the musician is taking a break. Stark, however, made it clear that he had not recently attended any rehab facilitations nor did he plan to visit any clinics in the future._

 

*

 

**July 1997**

 

They're in Moscow, the wind unusually bitter, the clouds unusually sad, visible even in the night sky. The Olympic Stadium is startling as it basks in the little yellow moonlight it can absorb and reflect, and Steve is reminded of how it would feel to enter a venue like that, knowing it would be their band to play to the crowd of twenty-five thousand. Those days seem so long ago.

 

Tony suggested getting away for a little while ("I've got two tickets for Odinson - it's his first tour since eighty-eight and it's one of those awesome shows that he announced last minute that wasn't even supposed to happen and hardly anybody knows about it but everyone just turns up, you know?"). Steve loves Thor Odinson - he's an incredible and powerful musician, but more importantly he loves Tony and turning him down was never even an option in his brainwashed mind.

 

The show is fantastic, screeching and belting on until midnight and then Steve, remembering the fact they also got backstage passes, needs to take a breather outside and away from all the bodies for a moment. Tony steps outside with him, head hung low as he lights a cigarette.

 

"I've barely spoken to you," notes Steve, recalling how their last encounter a few weeks ago ended up in another screaming match about Tony's insufferable drug habits which have escalated from bad to worse (when was the last time he wasn't high?). "How are things?"

 

"What do you think?" Tony laughs but there's nothing funny about it.

 

"Are you ever happy anymore?" Steve asks out of concern and is met with a half-hearted shrug. "That's what life's all about, though, right? If you're not happy, if you're not doing what you love, then you need to try to find something that will make you at least smile."

 

"You make me smile, Steve." Tony's retort makes Steve blush slightly, not expecting such a response. "Do you still love me?" His voice dips a little and he locks eyes with the former guitarist, silently imploring for reassurance.

 

Steve caves and drips with honesty. "Very much."

 

"Do you think it's actually possible to fall out of love?"

 

Steve wishes it could be because things would be a lot easier if that were the case. "Maybe, after a really long time, if the person gives you enough reasons to. Why are you asking me this?"

 

"It feels nice to be loved," is all Tony says in that sad voice of his before tilting his head to the side to blow smoke into the air. Steve watches the cigarette flake curiously.

 

"Can I try it?" He inquires, surprising his friend. Tony agrees and offers him the stick which is oddly light between Steve's fingers. Steve raises it to his lips and remembers to bring the smoke carefully into his mouth before he inhales, but still, he ends up coughing and spluttering at the sensation. "Oh, shit. It tastes a lot different than it smells - like really weird air." It's not really that bad, he thinks as he hands it back.

 

"I advise you don't make it a habit. Sorry; I'm a bad influence." Tony chuckles.

 

"I had asthma when I was a kid - my lungs wouldn't thank me for it." Tony knows this already. Steve checks his watch and surprisingly time has flown by, and it's approaching one a.m. "Hey, the bus will be leaving soon. We should use those backstage passes while we still can."

 

"Sure," Tony agrees indifferently but there's something off about it, something Steve doesn't quite catch onto, "you go ahead, I'll… I'll be right there—"

 

"Great." Steve interrupts him, feeling like a kid trying to meet Ronnie James Dio or another one of his heroes, but this time it's actually a dream come true. He stares up at the clouds, swirling and black and angry. "I wonder if it's true about what they say about seeing lightning whenever Thor's in a bad mood."

 

Steve turns to Tony to find he's gone. He figures the guy probably went to queue up behinds hundreds of others at the toilets or maybe he's checking out the merchandise stand. Steve trusts that Tony can find his way backstage and heads in that direction himself.

 

Pass slung around his neck, Steve approaches the tour bus and swallows a lump in his throat. He, a rock-star, is nervous about meeting another rock-star, of course. A figure appears at the door, smiling widely about nothing in particular, and his gaze catches Steve's. "Good God, Rogers, get in here."

 

"You know me?" Steve asks, baffled as Thor fucking Odinson ushers him inside the bus. It's just the two of them, no security or anything, and Thor offers him a beer to which he declines. Steve looks around, pleased not to see any white lines of powder or any pills tucked away in the crevices of the bus.

 

"Well, of course I know you. We don't usually do backstage passes but I wasn't going to turn down the frontman of The Avengers." Thor chuckles, referring to Tony, and takes a seat on the sofa. "He said you'd be all bashful, right enough."

 

"He should be coming any minute now."

 

"Really? He mentioned to me it would just be you…"

 

Steve does a backtrack. "No. No, he has the pass around his neck."

 

Thor blinks at him then decides to let it carefully slide. "Must be thinking of somebody else, I suppose."

 

Steve's having none of it, though, because something feels too strange. "He really said that to you? It's not like Tony to get shy and back out of anything."

 

"There's a first for everything. Take a seat while we wait a while," Thor suggests but words are replaying in ellipses over in Steve's mind, and suddenly he can't breathe.

 

I'll be right there, was the last thing he said.

 

"I - I'll go and check on him, make sure he's okay." Steve falters and falls back through the door, giving no other explanation as he runs back into the stadium.

 

It's mostly vacated but there are a few lingering, chatting individuals spouting useless shit in their Russian tongues, and Steve has to shove past them. He looks around, frantic, his voice too caught in his throat to call out a name. But why is he panicking? Where could Tony possibly have gone?

 

He could've blended in with the crowd, took the night bus out of town…

 

What would be his motive? Love does crazy things to a person, Steve realises as he looks around to no avail, and maybe he's finally gone off the deep end, but at the moment, the only thing that matters is the fact that Steve knows Tony is gone.

 

"Tony," he gets his voice back, small at first, but at this volume, nobody will hear him, "Tony."

 

The crowd blends in with their surroundings and a high-pitched ringing fills Steve's ears as he starts to feel ill with worry. Don't freak out; don't.

 

"Tony?" He searches the bathrooms next but every cubicle is empty and there's nobody waiting outside, and there's nobody even manning the merchandise stall, so he heads back outside as his hair whips around his face, pathetic rain starting to spit on his skin in revolt.

 

It's then he realises he has a mobile phone and maybe he should consider using it, and he's pulling it out of his pocket so fast he has whiplash, dialling Tony's number by heart and holding the device to his ear, waiting. And waiting. And waiting.

 

It stops ringing but it doesn't go to voicemail - instead, Steve hears nothing on the other end, and his heart stops beating for that moment. He eventually gets over the initial shock that it's been answered and plucks up enough courage to speak up. "Tones?"

 

"You're going to turn to the drugs, if any part of you is human," the soothing voice sounds out, "but they can only help for so long. After a while, you need to stop before you hurt yourself, for me. You need to do it on your own."

 

"I don't understand," Steve blurts out in blind breathlessness.

 

"I love you," says Tony, very softly, very gently, "not in the way you love me but close. I don't love you the way I love the drugs, I love you the way that I could split you up and you never cracked, or I could break you in but never down." Why do these words give him deja vu? "I know what you're thinking - I stole those analogies, and you're right. This guy, he was a poet, and he reminds me of myself. He must have been a real jerk." A small chuckle.

 

"Don't do anything stupid, okay?" Steve rushes out. "I'll come get you, just - tell me where you are."

 

"I liked the way I could kill you," says Tony like some sort of sadistic, quiet monster, "and you'd always come back, you and those infinite lives. There is more than one death. There is more than one kind of reincarnation. You understand, right? I have to get out of this life before it suffocates me. I can't be at the centre of the world anymore. Everyone has to know that I'm gone."

 

"Don't leave me," says Steve pathetically, "don't you fucking dare."

 

"You're as good as any immortal, Stevie; you'll live through it." Silence. "Do you love me now?"

 

"I can't fucking stand you sometimes," Steve admits, and bites his lip as he contemplates before saying, "… yes, I love you."

 

"Good," Tony says, "I'll give you a little lesson in falling out of love. It's relieving, you know - or so I've been told. See you in the next life I come around." And then there's a click as the call ends, and the deafening noiselessness of a loss.

 

Maybe Tony Stark will be forgotten by the rest of the world, when civilisation ends, when nobody gives a shit anymore. But to Steve, this is the worst resurrection of the many he has lived, and a slow descent into another place—

 

Another glorious, glorious demise.

 

*

 

**September 2000**

 

It's now that Natasha Romanov decides to turn to Steve Rogers' possible criminal offences and drug testing file. She expected a long list at first - almost knew it for certain without looking, yet now she thinks twice.

 

 _The defendant, Steven "Steve" Rogers, held accountable for the following criminal offences:_ _None._

 

 _The defendant, Steven "Steve" Rogers, tested positive for the following:_ _Blood Alcohol Content: 0.03%._ _Others: None._

 

"I had a couple drinks last night," Steve explains monotonously at the imperfect BAC, examining the detective's facial expressions that reveal nothing but slight surprise and pity, "but I've been off the hard stuff for a while now. I took his words seriously."

 

"What happened to Clint Barton? Bruce Banner?" Natasha fires off. "Shit, where the fuck is Tony Stark?"

 

"I've told you everything I know."

 

"But that can't be it," the detective argues like a child who refuses to believe their favourite story doesn't have a sequel, "what about Hammer? He - he did things to those underage fans and you didn't go to the police?"

 

"Oh, they caught him," Steve supplies and Natasha looks up in bewilderment, "I kept true to my word: He had a few years of solitude then the taxi driver's sister spoke up about how he harassed her. They found him in Cuba about six months ago, trialled him for child sexual abuse, bribery and dealing drugs - he's looking at at least twenty, thirty years locked up." When she looks like she wants to throw in more questions, Steve stops her. "Clint got clean, got himself married… He has kids now. Bruce is doing his own thing, and that's okay. Tony…"

 

"We're on the look-out," Natasha tries to reassure him, her tongue heavy in her mouth.

 

"Don't be," says Steve with a sad smile, "you won't find him. He never did anything wrong, anyway, so why bother? He doesn't want to be found."

 

"But people, his family, they miss him—"

 

"His family? His dad doesn't care, his mom's gone. All he had was the band." Steve retaliates in his hurt. "And we're moving on, like he said. Case closed, detective."

 

"You're okay with this," Natasha realises, half a question, her eyes narrowed in disbelief, "and what if he's dead from another overdose, lying in a ditch in God knows where?"

 

Steve is unsure of how to answer that one; it makes him feel uncomfortable and the slight claustrophobia of being inside the interrogation room is settling in again. "I don't want to reopen any wounds. Can I ask you a question, then can I leave?"

 

Natasha leans back and blows out an exasperated breath, stressed beyond belief. She has more queries now than what she did to begin with. "Fine."

 

"Why are you bringing all of this back up now? It's been three years." Steve's voice is a cautious murmur as if afraid of the oncoming answer. Natasha studies him, conjuring up an appropriate way to answer straight-forward but also not hurt his feelings or trigger an angry reaction. It's nobody's fault, she'll have to remind him.

 

"We…" She struggles. "We're going to pronounce him dead today, Steve."

 

Steve, somehow, isn't surprised. "It's been a long three years," he acknowledges, "it had to happen at some point. At least now they'll stop looking."

 

"You're okay with this?" Natasha repeats her earlier statement with skepticism.

 

"It's not up to me." He glances at the door again and prepares to bolt for it if necessary, if they refuse to let him go. "You promised, remember?"

 

"I did." The detective stays true to her word and gets to her feet to head to the door, knocking on it in a rhythmic fashion to let the guards at the other end of the hall know they can come back and let them out. As it swings open, she turns back respectfully to Steve. "No more looking," she swears the oath.

 

"Good." He nods appreciatively on his way out, glad to feel fresher air on his face. This is how his goodbyes go now.

 

When he gets home, Steve kicks his shoes off at the door and throws his jacket onto the stairs. He's relocated to a country place, isolated enough, comfortable and warm in the Midwest. There isn't a neighbour for miles - just the fields and the sun and sometimes the moon and stars if the clouds allow it. His name - or, in fact, The Avengers as a whole - hasn't been mentioned in any newspaper or magazine in years. The planet continues to turn, busy with its own relevant business.

 

Steve heads to the kitchen to make himself an Americano, then remembers something important. He twists his head over his neck to call into the living room. "You want a coffee?"

 

His roommate shifts on the sofa thoughtfully then replies. "Yeah, please."

 

Steve knows how to make it - no milk, no sugar. Just an espresso, really. He brews two cups and sets them down on coasters on the table in the living room, his attention divided thanks to the low hum of the television on the wall. "This is what you've been doing all day?" He gestures to it amusedly.

 

"I've been waiting for you to come home," Tony declares, pulling Steve onto the couch beside him and resting his head on the man's shoulders, "but it's better than Siberia. God, no offence but the Arctic Circle wins the award for the most boring fucking place on the planet."

 

"I'm glad you found me," Steve murmurs, even if the man has only been here a few weeks, "I missed having a voice accompanying my guitar."

 

"She's all broken up," Tony notes, staring at the gloomy-looking acoustic missing two strings and most of its fret markings in the corner, "I know you like vintage and all but…"

 

"You could help me fix her up," Steve suggests, "mend something that's broken."

 

"I was never very good at that." Tony grins. He doesn't need to say the words to let Steve know that he's finally made a good choice.

 

This is a good death.


End file.
